Michigan's Adventures in Hetalia
by Canada Mathieu Williams
Summary: America received reports of a mysterious girl. And after England and France BOTH push for him to investigate, he finds out exactly why. I do not own Hetalia. If I did, I wouldn't be on this site. T for France, Mitch, and General Hetalianess
1. Finding Her

It was a rather average day for America, nothing honestly noteable had taken place. He was oddly content with the boredom and, for once, a burger wasn't present in his hand. he adjusted Texas, and shifted his lucky jacket. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunkered down.

America kept his left hand on the gun in his pocket. This was a bad part of the city. He shifted uncomfortably and continued glancing around. Behind him mostly.

Each one of his precious states had at least one bad city, this one wasn't quite as bad as others, but it was dangerous just the same. He was investigating reports of a girl, hardly 15 in appearence, who had been evading cops with almost supernatural skill. When he brought the conundrum up during the last world meeting, both France and England had franticly pushed for an immediate investigation.

Having them both agree on something, and with such urgency in their voices too, had alerted the cheesy, fun-loving hero nation to action.

Footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. He shifted, fingering the gun. Peering aroud, he spotted two shady-looking guys, each gripping the arm of a young girl. She glanced around, hardly looking panicked as they restrained her. She held a calculating look in her eyes.

America sped up, nearly running. The girl halted her gaze on him, then used the men's grip as leverage to vault herself up and away.

She hit the ground running, sprinting towards the nation. When she got close enough, she put her hands to the ground, pushing and creating enough lift to catapult herself above the nation's head. She landed directly behind him, cowering.

He stopped in his tracks, lifting the gun from his pocket and leveling it at the two black-clad men pursuing the girl.

They stopped in their tracks. The girl laughed loudly, "Ha! You got big trouble now! You can't get at me anymore!"

"Freak!" the taller (only slightly) man yelled back, "You're a freak! You don't age! You don't have a home! Freak!"

She sneered, "I do so age! Your life is just too tiny and insignificant! Your life is too quick to see me!"

America whispered back harshly to the girl, "Stand down, you'll make it worse!"

She immediately shut up, saluting once before stepping behind him, muted. America relaxed his stance, not lowering the pistol's position.

"Micheal Tase, 26. Born and raised in Kansas. Left for Michigan after family's death. Nothing of note. Death: Messing with the wrong people.

"Tatum Geore, 33. Born and raised in Michigan. Never left the state. Death: Messing with the wrong people," America stated, holding himself high. He pulled the trigger twice. The men fell.

He turned back to the young teen behind him. Her face was a pale white, and she fired of a plethora of different languages, not holding to one for more than a word or two. Eventually English flashed by in her tirade of language. The words 'Thank you' so quick he barely caught it.

He placed a hand gently over her mouth, she quickly quieted down, her breathing still rapid. Almost like a panic attack.

"Breathe..." he whispered soothingly, taking the hand from her mouth and placing it on her shoulder. With his other hand he demonstrated slowing down. Moving it in time with his steady breathing.

She took to it near immediately; her breathing slowing as some color returned to her face.

"Are you alright?" America asked, his voice low, calm, and level.

She nodded, standing up straight. America finally got a good look at hier. He long brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and her eyes were the same crystal blue as his own. She had blue and white converse on, and knee high white socks. He bright orange halter-top was partially covered by a sort of half shawl. The blue fabric coverd her left shoulder and upper arm, the clasp settled on her right shoulder. Peaking out of the bottom of the long top were the bottoms of the jean shorts she wore.

It was a rather fashionable ensamble, and from what America had seen, extremely practical as well; allowing for tight manouvers.

"So I've got a hunch on who you are, but I need confirmation. What's your name?" America asked with a slight smile.

"I'm Michigan," her smile widened, "You c'n call me Mitch if ya want. It's gets kinda tiring sayin' 'Michigan' all the time. An' people don't tend t' call me anythin' but."  
**( A/N I'm going to stop typing it like that. It's going to get rather tedious. And don't you go gettin' angry at me. I know what a Michigan accent sounds like. I got one myself.)**

America straightened, placing a hand on her head, "Alright, Mitch it is!"

She shrugged and looked down shyly, then let the smile diminish. Looking up, her smile returned full force, almost as blinding as his own signature smile.

"You know a great deal of languages, huh Mitch?" he asked as he began walking the way back to his car. Mitch trailed along beside him.

"Yeah. Guess it's one of the side effects of history. Other people, regular humans at least, probably wouldn't have the time to learn so many. So many different people have been here, I guess I just got curious after a while, y'know?" she laughed and looked up at America.

He resisted the urge to hug her, an urge he rarely, if ever, had. She was a cute kid, he had to admit that to himself, and her eyes were just like his, gleaming with possibility. But those blue pools also held an uncertainty, and the naivety that he had tried so often to fake. (succesfully)

He was a lot smarter than he liked them to think.

He laughed, "As much as the rest of us fight, I think the only language that everyone has even bothered learning is English. Too busy fighting and making a mess of things to learn anything else," he paused ot laugh, "Especially France and England! Every war, very nearly, that England's been in has been only to spite France!" He stopped, "Which reminds me. I'm going to have to call them. Eh, I'll do it later."

They talked all the way back to the car, learning more and more about each other.

America smiled, "C'mon, I'll take you to my house. I got a spare room if you want it."

Mitch smiled, she didn't exactly have anywhere to go. She looked too young to buy a house, and had basicly been living off what was available.

"Awesome!" she bounced happily for a second before latching herself to America's middle, hugging him like it was her last. Her head barely came up to his shoulder, and her hugs were crushing.

He laughed and hugged the state back, quickly releasing with a "No problem."

Her reaction to his house was shocking, and really brought home her current situation. She was awed by his little place. To be honest it was kinda big, but not compared to others. What really excited her was the crystal-clean surfaces of the kitchen. Her eyes lit up and widened. Her awed gape turnied into an ecstatic grin. He would later find out why she was smiling so big.

**Ok, first chapter. I'm not going to promise anymore. But chances are (since I've already started the next chapter. I'm so sorry Cuba!) that there will be a next chapter relatively soon. I was super sick and now I'm all better. I'm going to place hiatus on all of my other stories, because if I work on more than one at once I will never finish any of them. Hope you enjoyed!**

**~Mattie**


	2. Cuban Intrusion

**Hey people! I've finished the second chapter, and I'm almost done with the third, again, no promises because it will cause me to abandon everything in another story! So I'm going to try to stick to this one by not promising nothin'!**

Chapter 2: Cuban Intrusion

Over the next couple of days America observed a few things. A. She was as bipolar as the Michiganian weather. B. She was rather clumsy. C. Her cooking was brilliant. She was also a generally shy girl, prone to panic attacks when when she did something wrong.

He had often had to take on the role of the caring, understanding fatherly figure she had obviously never had. He had also once made the mistake of making her angry, which ended up with his face in the floor and a gun up against his cheek. Afterward, she apologized profusely, trying to make it up to him with blueberry muffins made from scratch.

The muffins were delicious, to say the least. She had also taken to making breakfast. Often it was some sort of pastry, something healthy hidden in the delectable folds of the warm food. America had hardly gone to McDonald's for breakfast, preferring the expert palate of his new housemate. She had even made a burger once, and it was perfection in his eyes.

Surprisingly, he had the time (had remembered) to call England and France. They informed him of a World Conference coming up, each of them insisting on him bringing Michigan.

He was in the middle of a rather heated discussion with the brit on speaker phone when a shriek filled the air, followed by gunshots. America went silent, drawing his gun and speeding around his office desk.

"Mitch?!" he called from over the sounds downstairs. With no reply, he sprinted towards the door, calling a short "We'll continue this later," over his shoulder before sprinting downstairs.

England was shocked, but the sight that met America was far more shocking.

There stood Cuba, holding Michigan's arms behind her back. She looked furious, and had the remnants of shock clearing from her face. Obviously, it was a surprise attack. Also very plain was the success of said surprise attack. She struggled.

America shifted, leveling the sights on Cuba, "Let her go," his voice was stone cold and steady as the pistol he held, as he looked down the barrel at Cuba. His hands hadn't wavered a degree.

Cuba shook his head in refusal. America's eyes narrowed and he shifted his arm slightly, "Let her go or I will _make_ you let her go."

Mitch took this moment to basically dislocate her shoulders, jumping and rotating until she was perfectly lined up. She kicked out, bringing the heels of her shoes rocketing into the Cuban's face.

He released one of her arms in surprise. The shoulder snapped right back into place with a sickening click.

She hung and twisted from her left arm, which he hadn't let go of, revealing a rather ghastly bullet wound. Her right arm strained for the firearm on the floor, twisting and irritating the hideous wound on her upper arm.

America nearly missed the look of brilliance flash across her face before she winked at him, a cheeky smile lighting her features.

Grinning, she pulled herself together, America saw her trying so hard not to laugh. Then she _moaned_, causing America to blush as he realized her plan. His face turned beet red.

Cuba let go in embarrassment and surprise. Mitch took the opportunity to kick upwards, right in the soft spot. Where no man should be hit. She had perfect aim, as was unfortunate for the Cuban as he doubled over in pain.

America had recovered and winced in sympathy. Mitch vaulted in the air, landing next to America. He was practically splitting his sides in laughter.

He could barely pause to check if she was ok before laughing with a renewed vigor.

Cuba glared through the pain. He stood and stumbled out of the house, going north. Probably to Canada's residence.

America turned back to his state, her left are mas limp, and obviously dislocated. It had been yanked farther from her when she hung from it, causing it not to pop back into place like the other one had. Blood was also dripping down her arm from the bullet.

America immediately became serious, bringing her up to his office, where he kept his medical supplies.

"Yo, Eyebrows, you there dude?" America called.

"Of course I'm still here you bloody git! And stop making fun of my eyebrows!" the frustrated voice sounded from the phone.

"I'm gonna put you on video call, Old Man, so I can see ya while I fix this up!" America yelled back, flipping a switch. England showed up on a screen to the left of the desk. He furrowed his eyebrows as the American faced away, taking an unexpected moment to pop Mitch's arm back in place, she hissed.

America knelt over a box of medical supplies, sifting through them.

England's irritated eyes softened at America's seriousness, and at Mitch's appearance.

"Hello, I would suppose you are Michigan?" he looked her over, cute.

She looked up at him, "Yea', but what's it to you?" her eyes narrowed before squeezing shut as America fished around in her arm with tweezers for the bullet. She hissed again, wiggling.

" Hold still, kiddo. Don't want to make it any worse," he whispered, a needle and thread clenched between his teeth. She stilled, and almost immediately he found the offensive piece of metal. He gingerly removed it, she grimaced as a tear fell down her cheek. "Shh... it's ok, it's out," he wiped her tear away then ruffled her hair. He turned back to the screen, "I guess I'm going to _have _to bring her now. France hasn't seen her yet, and I'm sure that damned Cuban will be mortified. I didn't say 'Michigan' after all, I said 'Mitch'," he turned back, cleaning out the wound on his state's arm.

"Only if she's up to it. Don't push her," the brit replied, setting a little warning in his tone.

America nodded and looked up from his work, "You're gonna have to lay off the cooking, kid. Don't want you burning yourself on accident."

Michigan whined slightly before hissing again, clenching her teeth.

"She cooks?" England's interest was piqued.

"Like a dream," America took the needle thread, pulling a lighter out of his pocket, heating the needle.

"Really?"

America stitched up the wound, "She's better than France, and better than a fancy resteraunt. I haven't even _seen_ a McDonald's in the past couple of days," he finished, wrapping the arm in gauze before placing it in a sling. He looked at her, "All done, we'll check on it in a couple of days," he pulled her into a hug, releasing to face England again.

"We'll be there, don't worry about it," America smiled, then smiled at Mitch. She returned with an equally brilliant smile.

England looked between them. They were very much alike. "Alright, see you then," the call disconnected and the screen folded back up into the ceiling.

**I was so mean to Cuba! I'm sorry buddy, it was for the best! Oh well, review, tell me how you like it. I haven't actually recieved a lot of feedback. I'm going to continue on my own way with this story though. I've got it all figured out for the most part. But no promises, cross your fingers.**


	3. Notice

**Hi! Just a notice, I'd like to thank you for waiting. I've got one more week to go before I am free. I've been really busy and my grades suck. I'm going to put up the next chapter once I have some more free time. I've got a psychiatrist appointment soon, so I'm going to try to continue as fast as possible. I know I've always hated it when people update and it's only a notice. So I'm sorry.**

**I'll reply to a few reviews in the mean time.**

**To Guest: The problem with accents is that you can't hear your own. Seeing as you live in Roseville, michigan, you can't hear the michigan accent. It is a real thing. And I'm not making it up. You can hear the accent if you listen really hard and really pay attention to what you're saying. The problem with people from michigan, is that our accent is the stereotypical american accent.**

**We talk really fast and drop a bunch of letters, making it sound like we're saying letters that we actually not. Don't take this the wrong way. I'm only giving information. I don't mean any disrespect. You simply cannot hear your own accent.**

**I would also like to thank anybody else who reviewed. And thanks for the encouragement. I will try to update as soon as my parents stop breathing down my neck.**

**I apologize for not updating as often as I could. I thank you for reading, and I'll have everyone off my back after this week. ^-^**


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